


A Whole Other Level

by bluflamingo



Category: Stargate Atlantis, Stargate SG-1
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-11
Updated: 2013-09-11
Packaged: 2017-12-26 08:00:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,015
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/963517
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluflamingo/pseuds/bluflamingo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For a rarepairings prompt: John/Jack, John being turned on by the superior officer taboo, dress blues, and sex affected by Jack's age.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Whole Other Level

Visitors from Earth cause enough upheaval that it sometimes feels like there are always a few of them around, but in truth, they really don’t get that many guests from the Milky Way. They certainly never get Major Generals in their dress blues.

John was expecting the three IOA members – two women, one French, one from the UK, and a man with an accent that’s either Scottish or Irish, who turns out to be the current US delegate. The memo had said that they’d maybe bring someone from Washington, but he’s not prepared for Jack O’Neill in his dress uniform. He’s never had a particular thing for men in uniform, but he's suddenly very glad that no-one bothers with dress blues in Atlantis.

He’s pretty sure he misses most of the content of the introductory briefing, beyond nodding attentively whenever Woolsey manages to catch his eye. He can’t help it – every time he looks up, O’Neill is watching him, his face unreadable, faintly amused. He’s wearing his *dress blues*, he’s in John’s city, looking at him, and John’s more aware than he wants to be that he hasn’t had sex in over a year.

Woolsey’s wrapping up the meeting, the IOA members getting to their feet while Lorne offers to take them for a late supper and Rodney makes noises about having to get back to the lab, even when Teyla elbows him, discreetly. John stands with them, tells himself to get his act together, before he says something stupid like –

“I can show General O’Neill to the guest quarters.”

His team turns to look at him, which isn’t exactly a surprise, since he interrupted Woolsey from the other end of the conference table. Also – so much for not saying anything stupid. He shrugs, going for casual, nothing at all to see here; from the way O’Neill’s looking at him, he doesn’t pull it off very well.

“That’s very kind of you, Colonel,” Woolsey says, like he’s not entirely sure he means his own words.

John catches Lorne’s quickly hidden smile from the corner of his eye as he and Teyla go back to shepherding the IOA and Rodney out of the conference room. “No problem,” John says. Ronon’s still looking at him as he leaves, too neutral for John to call it knowing, except for how well he knows Ronon, reading it in the slight twitch of his eyebrows when John smiles at him.

“If you’re sure you don’t have anything else you should be doing,” Woolsey says.

John shakes his head no and it’s even true. Woolsey’s more Lantean than IOA these days, but he’ll never go completely native, not judging from the way he hounded them to distraction until they did every piece of paperwork and counted every bullet before this visit.

“I’m a visiting dignitary, Richard,” O’Neill says sternly. “Are you trying to suggest there could be more important things for the military commander of the city to be doing right now?”

Woolsey just eye balls him right back, obviously picking up the sarcasm, while John tries to stop the suggestive loop of _things for the military commander to be doing_ in his head.

“And I’ve been waiting for a chance to talk to Colonel Sheppard in person about why exactly he crash landed and wrecked a jumper in the middle of the start of a civil war,” O’Neill adds, his expression serious when he looks at John across the now empty room. John feels his whole body tighten, hopes it looks like he’s straightening up under the weight of O’Neill’s glare and not like he’s imagining seeing that look while he’s on his knees. To Woolsey, al least: he kind of hopes O’Neill is imagining the other thing.

“It was the only way to rescue my guys,” John says, thinking about three marines, battered and bruised but not broken. “You’d have done the same thing in my place. Sir.”

“Probably,” O’Neill agrees easily. “But I’m a general, which means I get to pretend every mission I undertook was meticulously planned and perfectly executed.”

“Yes, sir,” John says, smiling slightly. He never really thinks of O’Neill when the general isn’t around, tends to forget his dry sense of humor.

“Yes, well,” Woolsey says. “Just make sure not to leave any permanent marks.” John blinks, wondering if he’s the only one thinking that sounds ridiculously suggestive, and Woolsey flushes. “I didn’t mean – that is to say…” He trails to a halt and takes a breath. “Colonel Sheppard, please show General O’Neill to the guest quarters. General, I hope you’ll join me for breakfast tomorrow morning.”

“Delighted,” O’Neill tells him insincerely, and follows John out of the conference room.

Liu and Banks are on duty in the control room, and both look up to _sir_ John, or maybe O’Neill, as they walk through. John nods back and turns into the corridor, where a couple of his marines separate to let the two of them pass. Andrews gets one hand halfway to a salute before O’Neill waves it away. “I get enough of that back home,” he says.

“Yes sir,” Andrews says, sounding oddly disappointed. John narrows his eyes slightly; he doesn’t remember Andrews being one of the ones who had trouble breaking that habit when he came to Atlantis.

Andrews ducks his head a little as they pass. They’re almost at the end of the corridor before John hears Davis saying, hushed, “Dude, he’s a General,” half-scandalized, half-admiring. John keeps his owns eyes firmly on the corridor walls, concentrates on the unmatched tread of their two pairs of boots on the metal floor, and doesn’t look to see if O’Neill heard it as well. Andrews is young, good-looking in an overly-muscled, marine kind of way. He doesn’t have John’s gray hairs, John’s scars. John’s really not ready to be rejected for one of his own men.

They step into the transporter and out into an atrium with a huge glass window looking out at the edges of the city, and the ocean beyond.

O’Neill looks from the transporter to the view and back again. “That was nifty,” he says, like he didn’t have six weeks in the city with the Ancients to get used to instant transportation devices. That’s another thing John forgets – how strange O’Neill can be sometimes, like the world in his head isn’t quite the same as the world outside it.

“They’re pretty convenient,” he says agreeably. He’s always been more impressed by the view – it’s a big part of why the guest quarters are out here – but the transporters are pretty cool.

“So, do I get the VIP suite?” O’Neill asks.

“Yes, sir,” John says, touching the sensor and stepping back to let O’Neill enter first.

All the guest quarters are nice, but O’Neill really does have a damn nice suite, open plan and airy, with a small kitchen, another ocean view, and a double bed, one of only a handful they’ve managed to find in the city.

“In or out, Sheppard,” O’Neill says. “You’re upsetting the fixtures.”

“Sorry, sir.” John tries not to think about it too much as he steps into the room, letting the door finish closing behind him. “You wanted to chastise me for putting myself at unnecessary risk for people we weren’t sure were even still alive.”

“Yeah, but you just covered the main points for me,” O’Neill says, turning to face John, not just looking at him but watching him. John feels it like a heavy blanket falling over him, has to force his eyes to stay open.

“Plus, I really would have done the same thing in your place, and you did bring your men home safe.” He takes a step towards John, then another, till he’s close enough for John to imagine he can feel the heat of O’Neill’s skin. The air feels thick when he breathes in.

“And there are much better things I can think of to do to you, alone in my quarters.”

His tone is one of absolute confidence, but he raises his hand towards John very slowly, like he thinks John needs a chance to back away. John’s breathless with waiting, right on the edge of leaning into it when O’Neill’s hand cups John’s jaw, warm and rough, pressing against his skin until John feels burnt with it, O’Neill’s fingerprints on his skin.

He can’t quite stop the sigh of pure relief at being touched, finally, after what feels like forever, at O’Neill’s hand on him, holding him still. O’Neill laughs, not cruel, just amused, but John still feels his ears heat. He realizes he’s looking at O’Neill’s throat, not his face, but he can’t make his eyes slide back up. He wants to bow his head, prevented by O’Neill’s hand on his cheek, and then, unexpectedly, O’Neill tilting John’s head and kissing him.

John’s not ready for it, assumed that O’Neill wouldn’t do that, with him. When his brain catches up to the world, O’Neill’s opening John’s mouth, pressing his tongue inside. John goes with it, because he likes being kissed and O’Neill’s got a nice mouth, warm and soft against John’s, slight resistance when John kisses back. He feels that all the way through his body, right down to his cock, hardening with the feel of O’Neill’s single hand on his cheek, holding him.

When O’Neill pulls away, John sways after him for a moment before he gets himself under control. He keeps his eyes up, watches O’Neill’s Adams apple bob as he swallows, instead of checking out whether O’Neill’s reaction is the same as his own.

“You can touch,” O’Neill says. There’s a pause, then he adds, considering, “Unless you want me to order you not to? Or stop you?”

“No, sir,” John says. He can’t play the second way any more, and it’s not the orders that he wants, just the knowing that O’Neill could, if he wanted to, and that John would have to obey. The way that the truth of that makes this a whole other level of forbidden, beyond them being men, beyond O’Neill being another military man. It’s part of why he was maybe a little glad that they sent Carter, not Caldwell, and then Woolsey, who’s his boss but not a superior officer.

He doesn’t think about Colonel Sumner.

“Okay then,” O’Neill says, reaching up to unfasten the top button of his uniform jacket.

“I can –“ John starts, then stops himself. It might be kind of hot to watch O’Neill strip himself out of the outward signs of his rank. O’Neill raises a questioning eyebrow at him, but John shakes his head. O’Neill looks at him for another moment, then his fingers go back to the silver buttons, and John stops watching his face.

O’Neill doesn’t strip showily, just removes his jacket efficiently and tosses it, without turning, over a nearby chair. His tie, loosened and pulled from under the collar of his shirt, follows it, and John abruptly changes his mind, stepping up into O’Neill’s space and covering his hands at the collar of his blue dress shirt.

“Let me,” he says, trying to sound sexy rather than like a demanding child.

O’Neill’s hands fall away to hang empty at his sides, waiting for John to take care of him. It makes John’s stomach clench with wanting. O’Neill says, “By all means,” casual, almost dismissive.

John works the buttons open carefully, eyes on the skin he’s slowly revealing, pale, and dusted with a mix of light brown and gray hairs. He can feel O’Neill’s eyes on him, and he’s careful not to brush his fingers against warm skin. He’s got no illusions about this being more than a one time thing, and he wants to draw it out as long as possible.

He works his way down O’Neill’s torso – collar bones, chest, stomach – pulls his shirt tails free and opens the last couple of buttons. The material’s too stiff to fall away, until John slides his hands under the open shirt, runs them all the way back up O’Neill’s body, rush of skin contact that vibrates through his body like an electric shock. O’Neill’s so warm, close enough for John to smell his deodorant, faint undercurrent of sweat, and he wants to press himself all up against O’Neill. Who maybe has the same idea, because he wraps one hand round the back of John’s neck and pulls him close for a sloppy, open-mouthed kiss. John responds eagerly, feeling O’Neill’s other arm go round his waist, pressing him close enough to feel O’Neill’s erection against his hip.

“Fuck, Sheppard,” O’Neill says against his mouth, and John shivers with anticipation.

“Please,” he says, barely more than a breath against O’Neill’s throat as he slides down to his knees.

O’Neill’s erection is a warm, solid bulge in the front of his uniform pants when John ducks his head to rub his cheek against it. O’Neill groans and John forces himself to pull away before he gives in and just puts his open mouth against O’Neill’s pants. Wouldn’t do to leave a mark on the general’s dress blues.

His hands are shaking a little when he reaches for O’Neill’s belt, the button and zipper of his fly. He’s wearing white boxer briefs under his uniform, a slight damp patch over the head of his cock that John has to press his mouth to, an open-mouthed kiss that tastes of cotton. He stays there for a long moment, debating whether to push O’Neill’s pants and underwear down to his ankles, or leave them in place and just slide O’Neill’s cock free.

He’s still trying to decide when O’Neill says, “Sheppard,” not an order, just his name, dropping slowly to sink into his skin. John looks up, and O’Neill’s looking down at him, breathing heavier than usual, expression intense, shirt open, pants open to frame his erection, and yeah, that makes John’s breath catch.

He holds O’Neill’s gaze for a moment, wondering what either of them is waiting for, then ducks his head, feeling safer straight away. O’Neill’s cock is hard and thick in his hand, dark red and beading with fluid at the tip. John’s mouth waters when he licks at the head, and he shudders in relief as he slides his mouth further along it, taking O’Neill’s cock deeper until his mouth is full and it’s all he can taste. He sucks a couple of times, cautious, measuring the size against his mouth, his throat, then goes down for real, luxuriating in the taste, the feel of a cock in his mouth. He always forgets how good this feels, how much he loves this, when he doesn’t have it, and it’s always so much better in reality than in even his best fantasies.

O’Neill’s hand is in his hair, twisting just enough for John to feel it, until John goes down on him even further, swallows around the head of his cock. Then, his fingers tighten to the point of pain, and his hips twitch forward, pushing his cock deeper. John groans round it, hoping he sounds encouraging, but O’Neill loosens his grip on John’s hair, goes still.

John pulls back, O’Neill’s cock shiny with John’s saliva when he lets it slip free of his mouth. “You can fuck my mouth,” he says, trying again for enticing.

O’Neill’s smile is tense. “I’ll come.”

“That’s not really a problem for me,” John tells him. Sure, O’Neill probably should be wearing a condom, but the taste of rubber in his mouth is not what John’s looking for.

“Thought you wanted me to fuck you somewhere else.”

John gives the most relaxed shrug he can when he’s on his knees, fully clothes and hard, his mouth only a few inches from O’Neill’s cock. “We can do both.”

O’Neill’s face goes more tense. “Not unless you’ve got a damn good excuse for why you spent all night in my room.”

John gets it a second after O’Neill finishes speaking, his face heating again. Nice one, John, remind the guy that he’s not as young as he used to be. He hadn’t even been thinking of the implications of the two of them being locked in here together, alone, but of course he’ll have to leave when they’re done, can’t wait out O’Neill’s recovery period. Fuck.

“So, uh –“ O’Neill says. John glances down; he’s still hard, and John still wants it. He’s gotten through worse moments.

“I want you to fuck me,” he says firmly, hoping he’s not slipping into his military commander voice. That would just be weird on more levels than he’s comfortable with.

“Then you need to take off some of those clothes,” O’Neill says, firm and amused, like that moment never happened.

*

O’Neill keeps his open shirt on when he finishes going through his pack and comes over to where John’s lying naked on the double bed. John doesn’t know if it’s for him or for O’Neill, and he kind of doesn’t care, because O’Neill looks good like that, dress shirt framing a band of skin, his thick, hard cock. John’s going to have to ban dress uniforms in the city, because he’ll never be able to look at another one without thinking of this and getting hard.

O’Neill drops a condom and a tube of hand cream on the pillow, then leans over John and kisses his, firm and deep. John wraps his arms round O’Neill’s back, holds on, feeling weirdly shaken by the kiss, something more than he usually gets like this – more connection, more affection, more something – but it’s almost a relief when O’Neill sits back to slick a finger and push it into John.

It’s easy enough. John breathes, lets his legs fall further apart. He’s almost painfully hard, but it’s distant compared to the bright sensation of O’Neill pushing a second finger into him. It’s too awkward to do this to himself, and he hasn’t done it with anyone else in a while. “More,” he says, shifting his hips, trying to get O’Neill’s fingers deeper.

“Patience,” O’Neill says, but he adds a third finger, twisting until John gasps. “Okay?”

“Yeah,” John says. “Yeah, I’m ready.”

O’Neill fucks him a couple of times with his fingers before sliding out and reaching for the condom. “You want to turn over?” he asks, looking at John as he rolls the condom down his dick.

“I – “John starts. He’s almost breathless under the weight of O’Neill’s gaze, imagines how much more it’s going to be with O’Neill inside him. He’ll be lucky if he lasts through O’Neill entering him like this. “Yeah,” he says, and pushes himself carefully over until he’s mostly on his stomach, the head of his cock brushing the sheets when he draws one leg up, exposing himself.

He feels O’Neill settle over him again, thighs on either side of John’s, then a warm hand in the centre of John’s back, and the head of O’Neill’s cock against his ass. He takes a deep breath, breathes it out slowly, and O’Neill pushes into him.

He’s a fair amount bigger than even three fingers, and John’s kind of tight still, so even with fingers and lube it’s uncomfortable. John swallows down his automatic wince as O’Neill pushes fully into him, balls pressed against John’s ass. John expects him to wait, to ask if John’s okay, but he doesn’t, just pulls back and thrusts in again, hand still on John’s back to hold him still. John takes another deep breath, trying to remember how to relax into it, and O’Neill’s next thrust angles down slightly, right against John’s prostate. He cries out helplessly, overwhelmed, and O’Neill does it again, again, again, not fast, but steady, deep and hard and so, so good.

John knows he should be quiet, but he feels totally out of control, his mouth working without his conscious thought, cries and moans and eventually just a litany of, “please, please, please,” that he knows he’ll find utterly humiliating in retrospect.

“Please what?” O’Neill asks, sounding gratifyingly breathless, even as his rhythm goes on unbroken.

John opens his mouth to say _touch me_ but what comes out is, “God, please,” in a broken voice he barely recognizes as his own.

Apparently it’s still meaningful, because O’Neill shifts his weight enough to wrap his fist around John’s aching cock. John pushes into it, back to meet O’Neill’s next thrust, and it’s right on the line of bearable, so close to being too much. Then O’Neill tightens his fist slightly, and John goes over the edge with a sharp cry, his whole body tensing, still moving on automatic pilot. O’Neill fucks him through it, every press of his cock into John sending another shiver of after shock through him, his cock pulsing faintly with it.

When O’Neill releases John’s cock, he feels weak, exhausted, spent. O’Neill’s still hard inside him. He pushes John fully down onto his stomach and keeps going, less careful to hit John’s prostate on every thrust, just going after his own orgasm. John’s grateful for it. The drag of the cotton sheets against his soft, spent cock is enough to make him shiver with hyper-sensitivity. He’s not going to get hard again like this, but O’Neill doesn’t seem to want anything from him other than to lie there while O’Neill grunts and sweats towards completion. It’s the most relaxed John’s felt in years, the most able to relax, under his superior officer in Atlantis’ guest quarters.

He’s drifting on a haze of warmth and pleasure, so he has no idea how much later it is when O’Neill groans, grips John’s hips and pushes into him for half a dozen short, sharp thrusts before coming with a deep grunt of something like satisfaction.

He pulls out and drops down next to John, who feels him move around a little. Getting rid of the condom, probably. John gives him a couple of minutes, then pushes himself up on arms that feel like over-cooked spaghetti, and shifts over to kiss O’Neill’s soft, relaxed mouth. O’Neill pulls him closer, and John shivers at the feel of damp cotton and skin against skin.

He knows he’s just postponing the inevitable at this point, so it’s not a surprise when O’Neill gently nudges him away. “You should get going.”

“Yeah.” John contemplates asking to use the shower, then decides he’ll probably be less conspicuous just being sweaty, if he moves quickly enough. He can get most of the way to his quarters in the transporter anyway.

Assuming his legs will keep him up.

He stumbles into the bathroom to wipe the worst of his own drying come from his stomach, and catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror. Okay, make that *really* quickly, because his hair’s gone crazy and his eyes are blurry, and he looks exactly like someone who just had pretty fantastic sex with someone incredibly inappropriate.

He feels O’Neill’s eyes on him as he gets back into his uniform, folded neatly on the floor at the foot of the bed. He’s tempted to go over for another kiss, but he suspects his self-control can’t withstand O’Neill mostly naked and post-coital, cock soft against his thigh.

John’s nearly at the door, fiddling to replace his radio in his ear, when O’Neill says, “I was kinda looking forward to finishing that blow job,” like he’s suggesting they catch a football game on TV.

John feels the smile on his own face and knows it’ll be in his voice when he says, “I’d be remiss in my duty if I denied a visiting general what he wanted, sir.”

“That’s what I like about you, Sheppard,” O’Neill says, sounding amused. “Your obedience to the little details of the chain of command.”

“Yes, sir,” John says, hesitating. He’s pretty sure O’Neill expects him to leave now, but…

“My quarters, 2000 tomorrow,” O’Neill says. John feels him pause, then he says, “Dismissed, Colonel.”

John just makes it into the corridor before he lets the shudder of desire roll down his spine. This is going to be much better than previous visits from Earth.


End file.
